


Whisper (Howls in the Night)

by cjr09



Category: Symphpond
Genre: (relatively) brief character study, anyway!! symph writing for a halloween task, i am beholden to no gods here and i do what i want, im making every arpg im in an ao3 category, minor violence warning? blood and violence but its not super descriptive, not super happy with this but its a good start!, was supposed to be like 300 words but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-11 01:38:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjr09/pseuds/cjr09
Summary: Tora just wants to sleep. Just once, she'd like to get a full nights sleep, without monsters or demons or annoying siblings ruining it for one reason or another.She's never been quite that lucky.





	Whisper (Howls in the Night)

Tora raises her head, looks into the distance; through the dark and the fog and the trees, over the dark water of the pond, so much less inviting when the water could hold anything in its depths.

The moon is low and dull, the crescent of a lazy slit eye staring, unflinching, from above as the stars wink behind it.

She flicks an ear, not moving from her position where she'd been trying to sleep, but her muscles burn with tension anyway, coiled like a snake.

The night is never _quiet_ and all manner of odd creatures sing into the anonymity of the darkness, hum their love to the stars, but tonight a distant out-of-time tune that Tora can't place carrying on the breeze and setting her scales on end.

A whimpered howl, carried on the breeze like a secret, hushed and deadly and far too close for comfort.

Tora keeps her eyes closed and runs through her options: the wind whistling through a forgotten pipe, the howling of foxes and dogs and anything that _could_ howl, the dying croak of a fallen bird, the distant mourning of a restless spirit.

Tora idly scratches a rune for _protection_ into the cracked dirt beneath her. It's probably nothing at all. She doesn't even have to open her eyes. She can go to sleep and the sound and whatever made it would be gone by the light of day.

The whispering breaks into an anguished wail, a secret let loose in bloody fashion, as the very sky seems to vibrate with the rage of the undead, the stars flinching back as they blink wildly, only the moon remaining steady in its gaze.

Tora gives herself a moment to hide her head in her hands. She just wants one night's sleep. Just the one.

Evidently, far too much to ask for.

_It still sounds like a ghost,_ Tora muses lazily as the screeching sobs grow louder, hollowed out and whisper-sharp in a way voices without life always were. _Don't have any pre-drawn paper runes. No mythical blessings, either, or any divine weapons._

A distant rattling starts to accompany the wails, shuffling slow and angry and unsure in her direction. _Chained ghost and everything, excellent. I've got my swords. Can I stab a ghost? What are ghosts weak to?_

She scratches the rune for _life_ next to the one for _protection._ The spirit's getting close, but she still doesn't open her eyes. Maybe it'll pass her by as it staggered its way further into the afterlife. She might still get to sleep. It's not her problem.

The birds wake up, flee their perches. There's a distant crashing; Tora upticks the spirit from _ghost_ to _poltergeist_ in her mind, slowly upping the threat level. Still not her problem. _Some sage nearby, though nothing to light it with. Does salt work on ghosts, or just demons? Definitely don't have enough to trap it, anyway._

The rattling and wailing slows, quiets. There's a few moments of tense, unnatural silence, before the spirits' dead voice seems to fill the whole forest, rattling through the branches and grass and dirt. Tora winces, ears flattening instinctively. _Gods. Maybe it's a banshee, not a ghost._

Tora gives a small huff, rolls her head onto her other arm and gropes blindly next to her for her swords. _Gold works against banshees, right? You just gotta go for the head?_

The ghost-poltergeist-demon-banshee screams its way slowly closer, dragging chains along the ground in an awful bass beat to its caterwauling. It's headed right for Tora, if the way the wall of sound suddenly feels much more direct is any indication.

Tora sighs deeply into her arm- not that she would have been heard at max volume over all the yowling. She runs her fingers over the hilts of her swords, feeling in the darkness for the one with the right metal, the correct engraved runes.

Maybe she can just pretend to sleep through it. _If I don't move, it might not even see me,_ she tries to think over the ringing white noise in her ears. She could still get out of this without ruining her night, maybe get some sleep.

The banshee's path abruptly turns, and Tora almost relaxes until she pinpoints the new direction its turned; there's a pond that direction, far away that they might not have been bothered by the noise but close enough to be in danger.

_It's not my problem,_ Tora thinks to herself aggressively as the ringing in her ears starts to die down. It's a cozy little pond, with just enough symphs for the waterline, a few notes that giggle at her flat-sharp jokes and like to chew on the hilts of her swords, gumming on the hilts.

Tora clicks her tongue and finally cracks open her eyes, grip tightening around her chosen sword. The moonlight catches on the gleaming, golden edges, illuminates the wards and runes etched to the hilt and guards. For all its wailing, the banshee is a small thing, symph-sized and ghostly. It's a floating, skeletal torso with flesh rotting from its spectral bones, broken and rusted chains cutting deep into ugly open wounds, dull and grey, and a thick shackle around its neck that ends just below the chin. There's bright red blood caked on its claws, its teeth, the ends of the chains; feathers and fur, wild animal kills.

Tora has a moment for pity, but only one.

_(Spare no pity for the dead,_ her mentors' voice drifts from her memories, _we fight for the living. They've had their chance. Deliver them to the merciful rest.)_

The shackle around its neck is thick, tough metal. The line between it and the chin is where Tora cuts her own bloody line through spectral flesh.

The shrieking stops with an abrupt sort of gurgle, but Tora doesn't pay much attention to the carnage; a lot of rotten blood and bone, most of the solid flesh a manifestation of grief and rage. The manacles fall heavy to the ground, real as they were when they chained whatever soul had been broken into that monster.

_(Pay no pity to the dead, but lay them firmly to rest. They deserve peace, as any other.)_

She's got enough salt to purify the bones, at least. The shackles are going to be a challenge, and there's not much she can do about the already rotted blood.

She looks at the moon, which looks right back; a lazy, hooded eye, ready to close for sleep.

Tora snorts to herself, rolling her eyes as she goes through the motions of cleaning her blade, running her fingers over the engraved patterns idly. Sleep; yeah, she wishes.

It's still late, and the moon's eye stays open, so hers do, too. She holds its gaze for a few moments longer before turning back to her task. No point wasting time.

It'll be a long night.


End file.
